Tyler's Fight
by Wild Childe
Summary: A stranger comes into the basement and challenges Tyler to a fight. This is almost all Tyler and the other person, not for Jack fans.


Kay, I never really got used to the whole Tyler/Jack being the same thing, so this fic is when they're two characters

Kay, I never really got used to the whole Tyler/Jack being the same thing, so this fic is when they're two characters. Just to tell you.

It was the second fight of the month, third month of the year, first year of Fight Club. The dingy basement hummed with energy and testosterone soaked bodies. The floors, the pillars, the walls, they all reeked of the same thing; violence—beautiful, simple, undebatable violence. 

Fists lashed out and a man cried out in pain as he was thrown to the ground. The other man stood over him, punches flying like his life rode on every ounce of drawn blood from his opponent's body. The grounded man lay still and his victor crouched over him, murmuring soft words of comfort and with a final pat, they were swallowed into the pack of screaming others.

Tyler's clear rumble swept through the room in a cool lash: "Quiet." And the room was silent as the dead.

He hadn't said it loudly or harshly, it was just there, like the stench, like the energy, like every body in the small, cramped quarters, ready to do battle with his demons.

Every eye was on the lean muscled figure as he spoke; he was their god. 

"I see no more new faces; this is good. The first rule of Fight Club is remembered." He paused to light a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew two smoke rings. "I want you to remember the purpose of Fight Club; we are men living in an age where there is no fire to be discovered. We don't hunt, we have no battles; we are growing soft. We are relying on material things more and more—as I have said—trapped in labor we hate, doing things purely to obtain these material possessions. We are more than that. Here is a chance to do what we evolved to do, and that is fight."

The whole room roared. The fights began.

Tyler pulled off his shirt, exposing a muscular configuration to make any man wild with jealousy. He patted the first fighters on the back and sat in a darkened corner, leaning with his back to the chill stone as heat and emotion rose off the ring. His fingers traced the small tattoo on his lower ribcage of a small dragon—he had loved every second of the pain, delighted at its result. And fuck the yuppie conformists who would say he was a masochist or that his pleasure was based simply on macho bullshit. 

He smiled grimly; this was his vision, dozens of corporate men finding freedom through beating another man bloody. His small joy cooled as another thought swam up; this was also not what he wanted. His one night scrap with Jack turned into a fucking support group for people who didn't have the balls to stand up to life. He sighed and took another drag on the cig. Can't win em all. 

A burst of cheering marked the fight's end; Joey had won. Russell's face was just turning back its normal color, having been a bluish tinge from lack of air. He'd be okay.

A dark figure glided down the steps, coat flaring out behind. The green haired man not much past a minor next to Tyler nodded in the direction of the stairs towards the figure. He looked and glared.

The figure, whoever he was, wore something silver on one hand, but the hood on the coat obscured any facial identification. Tyler waited until the beaten man's pained grunts subsided, to stand and raise a hand for silence.

Everyone watched him, the next fight did not begin as the figure moved to the heart of the group where Tyler stood. 

The new guy smelled of leather and sweat, smelled a lot like the room. His hood was pulled up far over his face so it was totally obscured. Tyler waited until the stranger was right up close to him to speak. 

"You're late."

"Yes" came a reply; the voice was calm and crisp—the kind of voice that'll drive a person mad in an argument. 

"You're new here. Who told you?"

The hood shifted a little and Tyler thought he could see the baring of teeth.

"Heard you guys from the bar. Is this a private party or can anyone join?" A delicate mirth laced the stranger's speech, a secret kind of humor that Tyler was determined to reveal. But slowly, no rushing for his careful plan.

"Not a private party, a club. Welcome to Fight Club. I'm Tyler Durden. Can I have the rules?" he turned to the crowd of waiting men. 

"Rule, number one: Never talk about Fight Club. Rule, number two: Never talk about Fight Club. Rule, number three: No shirt or shoes while fighting. And rule, number four: If it's your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight." 

The figure under the hood smirked; It was like an army, trained to fight and obey. Except this army obeys out of adoration for their master. They roll in the red, red blood and fight like wolves and yet they are all bound loyal to this one leader. How fascinating.

The hood shifted again; another grim smile. "Alright, I'm game. Call me when you wish to fight, Mr. Durden." 

The stranger turned and moved into a corner and the soft thuds of flesh on flesh marked the start of the next fight. The newcomer was now one of the group, just another guy, until he would be called into the ring. 

Tyler's eyes swung back to the ring and he let the energy build in his veins. Testosterone rode high on the dank air and he felt his arms ache with the need to sock something live. He stood and stretched as a bloody man was hauled off the ring; he was ready to fight. Then he remembered the new guy. He soon picked him out, crouched in a corner, dark hands clenching and unclenching with anticipation. Tyler studied his opponent. 

He was built smaller than most of the men, but small almost never meant weak; what one man did in strength, another made up for in skill. 

The stranger watched through narrowed eyes the figures of men writhing in pain and glory and felt the tension sing through hands back and legs. A grim smile crossed the darkened face; this Tyler Durden seemed interesting, a worthy opponent. The stranger rotated the neck tension away, champing at the internal bit, yearning to fight. But no, not until they called. Wait, it would come soon.

Tyler held his hand up for the third time that night, silencing the rabble and beckoning the figure in the shadows forward.

My turn, the stranger thought and eagerly stepped forward into the ring.

Drawstring sweats just revealed a pierced navel and a small reddish henna tattoo that crawled up a soft torso to be cut off by—the whole room did a double take on this—a black sports bra. Dark hair was woven in a tight braid and doubled to keep it out of the way. The girl—for that is what she was, not much older than twenty—grinned slightly and moved forward to the challenge. 

Tyler frowned; he'd never really quite specified that women were _not_ allowed in Fight Club. Every eye turned to him; it was his call.

"The rule states no shirt, no shoes. I removed my shirt and for sake of comfort and decency left the razor back on." She moved into the ring. "Is that a problem?" 

Tyler contemplated this for a moment; as much as he would like to see her topless, he had to keep his priorities straight. "No problem, but we don't fight with rings; take em off." 

Everyone glanced at her hands; a total of 9 rings decorated her thumb, last, middle and fourth fingers on each hand. She frowned at her hands for a second, as if contemplating whether or not she really wanted to ditch her treasured bangles but pulled each off and tossed them to her pile of clothes.

"Done."

Tyler shrugged and swung a hard punch to her midsection. She was caught off guard but wrapped a hand around his wrist to stop him briefly.

"Are below the belt hits allowed?" 

Tyler wrenched his arm from her grasp and kicked out again. "There are no belts."

She smiled and dodged his blow. "I'll take that as a yes."

The two dove into each other, no squaring off. Tyler for all his experience was harder pressed to land a blow on the dark haired woman. He discovered that while men would stand there and take the blow to show how big and tough they were, the girl was all over the place, never holding still. He landed a few good blows but not as many as when fighting with a guy.

She knew he was a good fighter just by watching him move. And when he hit, he hit hard. She'd seen the other men fight and knew right after his first hit that she would not get into a grapple contest with him. If it came to that, she'd be in deep shit. 

Blood poured from a gash above her eye and a spilt lip and stung as she elbowed him hard in the solar plexus. He grunted and got her in a chokehold and slammed her down, knocking the wind out of her. 

She was up before he could hit again and slugged him hard across the face, resisting the urge to kick in his knee. She gasped at the sweet pain as he landed a hard one across her face. Blood ran down her face and she retorted by breaking his nose, oh, so careful not to hit him straight on and thus driving the nasal bone into his brain. That would be bad.

Her muscles coiled and shied away as he punched her a good one in the stomach and got him back fast just shy of breaking his jaw, releasing tangy blood down his five o'clock shadow and making him cry out. 

She was around his neck before he could spin and had him in as tight a back chokehold as ever he'd had. She kneed him hard in the back just as he threw himself down back wards, landing on her and pinning her down hard. 

Ouch, she grunted and grabbing a handful of hair belted him one across the face that sent him reeling. 

Slightly dazed, Tyler realized that she hit more open handed than with a closed fist. It proved effective. 

He caught her in the shin and scrabbled to pin her. He missed and both were up. 

She threw, he blocked; he countered, she dodged. Together they wove around the ring like cobras, neither standing still for long, adjusting and modifying their style to fit the other. 

She backed up to the nearest wall. Tyler came in fast and hit hard across the face, again and again. Pain rang in her ears, and she bit her lip to bring her back. Tyler was getting tired. Fighting her was more mentally exhausting than anyone else he'd been with. 

He paused to check his damage and she jumped out of that bloody mask at him fast enough to make him hit air on his next swing. He whirled and she was there. He swung once, she dodged and landed him hard against the concrete wall. Her face and arms were bloody but she managed to get a grip and use her whole body to her advantage. Better yet, she thought, and grabbed a fistful of hair to slam his entire torso into the concrete. 

Tyler sighed in pain. Blood bubbled out from his mouth and nose when he tried to breathe. He felt her hands leave and made a move to strike. He only got her leg which brought her to her knees, one pressed into his throat, hands pinning his arms. 

Tyler was officially out. 

The room was absolutely silent as she got up panting from the equally exhausted Tyler and walked a not so straight line to her coat. Several men moved to help their master but he waved them off and licked the blood cautiously from his lips. He choked, coughed and came up with blood; pain rushed back from the pleasant numbness and he staggered to his feet. Jack tossed him a towel and a pack of cigarettes. He wiped his face off, lit up and narrowed his eyes at the girl, now buttoning up a long sleeved shirt. He blew smoke in her direction.

"What's your name?" 

She glanced over her shoulder for a second then kept buttoning. "Taylor."

A small chuckle ran through the room at the irony— Tyler and Taylor, hell with a mean right hook.

"Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce Taylor, the first and only person to whoop my ass in a fight."

Had it been anyone but Tyler Durden admitting this, everyone would have laughed. However it was Tyler Durden and everyone in the room had gone down under his hand so no one so much as smiled. 

Taylor turned her back and filled her screaming lungs with the dank air; another night, another fight, just some more steam blown off. She nodded to herself—it had been a good one, she had to admit. She inhaled blood, her body ached and she felt absolutely terrific. She remembered how her fist had sprung back off of Tyler's stomach and contemplated the idea of taking him home with her. No, it wasn't worth it; her dogs needed TLC and it had been days since she'd written a thing. Very bad girl.

Tyler smiled as she dressed and wondered if she gave good head. He wanted a rematch and this time he would win. 

He felt she could hear his thoughts as she moved off in the direction of the stairs. "You're in; come back next week, I want a rematch." He said softly. It was the tone that could carry for miles and not wake a sleeping deer. It had taken him years to learn to do that.

She faced him with a laugh, the dingy lamplight skipping across her ruby nose stud like a wink; it was not a friendly wink. Taylor turned and started back to Tyler, eyes on the floor and very aware of exactly where he was. Fury turning to incredulous amusement seemed to make her blood run faster from her veins and she rolled her lips once to clear the coppery blood away. 

She moved until she was inches from the worshipped man to speak and when she did, her voice was laced the internal scream of withering hate for life. It came in the form of a barking laugh that made everyone jump a little. 

"I don't need you're acceptance, or your fight." She smiled gently and condescendingly; it made Tyler's arms ache for another fight. She touched thumb tip to the steady stream of blood coursing from her nose and wiped a streak down Tyler's face. "I would like to have another go. My promise of a rematch; I'll come again to collect soon."

She left the room like she came in, easy and centered, shaking her head at some joke that only she knew. The green haired youth that stood at Tyler's right hand even noticed her wave a hand in farewell in a flash of silver. 

Taylor glowered at her dragon ring—the flippant amusement was slowly wearing off. Her jaw flexed in focused thoughts of mild anger; how dare Tyler assume she came like the rest of his pets, begging, eager for his godlike hand to descend upon her in acceptance. Did he suppose she would give him her back to fuck like the rest of the harem she was sure existed? 

Her face slid blank as she stepped out into the evening—she would return next week, if time permitted; had her own reasons for her fight and she too wanted a rematch. The pain hadn't been enough.

Tyler Durden assigned homework that night to the members of Fight Club. "I want you to each approach a stranger and ask them what they want most in this life time. If they don't know, ask them why and if they know ask them why." 

The room slowly cleared out and Tyler and Jack were left, bloody and sore, thinking of the night's events. Tyler rubbed gently at the dried blood, and thought hard; he hadn't fought like that in quite a while—it seemed most of the Club members were all too glad to go down under his fist. She had no loyalty to him, some respect and all the confidence to do what she did tonight. 

His pride stung as did his wounds, but at least he had something to look forward to next Saturday.


End file.
